


wild dogs and things like that

by blackwood (transjon)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Boundary Negotiation, Canon Asexual Character, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, kiss averse character, safehouse fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24808240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjon/pseuds/blackwood
Summary: Does it matter if it makes sense? Does it matter if other people do it? If Jon does it? Martin does it. That’s enough, isn’t it?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 62
Kudos: 276





	wild dogs and things like that

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arguenot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arguenot/gifts).



> title is from a complete list of fears ages 5-28 by the yellow dress 
> 
> every day i become a worse and worse tagger... this is mostly just establishing boundaries, figuring out what normalcy means, figuring out what boundaries ARE, that kind of stuff.
> 
> requested by arguenot on tumblr!

“Suppose,” Martin says, “that you’re on a boat.”

It’s warm in the bedroom. Jon’s head feels weirdly light on Martin’s belly. Like he’s balancing on a cloud. 

“Right,” Jon says. Light is filtering in through the open window. He closes his eyes. 

“And – in the distance there’s a lighthouse.” Martin’s hand in Jon’s hair stills, twitches, and then resumes its movement, the light pull and scratch of his fingers through his hair, against his scalp. 

“Right,” Jon says again. He pushes his head into Martin’s hand. It makes Martin smile, he knows. Nothing supernatural about it – just, a result of perceiving and being perceived. Intuition. Something so vulnerable and sweet about it. Familiar. Been a long time since he had something like this. 

Martin sighs. “And the boat shouldn’t go too close to the lighthouse, right? Because it marks land. But it’s beautiful. And you’ve been out on the sea for a long time. And – and maybe the lighthouse isn’t a lighthouse at all – maybe it’s something else – maybe it’s a trick of the light, even! But you keep wanting to just – you want to get to the lighthouse. Because even if there’s a real possibility that you’re going to get stuck on rocks or, crash, I guess, there’s still this thing about lighthouses meaning safety that you’ve internalized, for some reason.”

Jon cracks open one eye. “Is this a metaphor?”

“Yeah,” Martin says. 

Jon waits, patient and silent, and Martin, finally, says “I don’t know what for.”

“Okay,” Jon says mildly. 

Martin’s hand leaves Jon’s hair. It moves down the side of his face, over the jut of his cheekbones, the hollows of his cheeks, over the corner of his mouth. His fingers falter there, like he’s thinking about swiping them across his mouth, but he doesn’t. Instead his fingers move down, and then trace the shape of his bottom lip just underneath it, the dip where the skin is sensitive. 

“I think I thought you were the lighthouse,” Martin says quietly. “To start with.” 

When Jon tilts his head back to see his face, Martin's got his eyes closed. Speaking now would disrupt the quiet, gentle movement of his fingers. He closes his own eyes and hums.

“Do you think maybe – does it make sense?” Martin moves his hand again, and Jon just barely stops himself from frowning.

“Well,” Jon says, “I’m real.”

“I know,” Martin says. There’s a smile in his voice. Like he knows Jon’s dancing around the question on purpose. Jon rubs his face against Martin’s hand where it’s cupped over his jaw until Martin pets the skin there. 

“Do you want to – without a metaphor?”

Martin frowns, just gently. “No, I think I was just –” he sighs, “it’s not important, really. I just felt like I had to get it out of my head.”

“Well,” Jon says, “I thought it was important.”

“Thanks,” Martin says. He sounds insecure, the way he tends to when he’s not sure how his words have been taken. 

“Really,” Jon insists. “I like hearing you,” he scrambles for words, “uh, say things.”

“Gee,” Martin says, “thank you. I sure hope you do.”

Jon pouts. “I love you,” he says. 

“Oh,” Martin says. He sounds so shocked for a second Jon feels bad – like a lighthouse; empty and unseeing; dangerous to get close to. Before he can apologize (for what? His words? For what he’s like? For what he used to be like? His feelings?) Martin bends and twists his body awkwardly until he can reach the top of Jon’s head with his face. 

Jon can just barely feel the kiss he presses into his hair. “Love you,” Martin says. 

(And Jon wonders, in this metaphor, who is the boat? Could he be the boat? Could he carry Martin when he’s tired? Across the dark, endless waves?)

–

Martin sits down in his lap, legs on either side of Jon’s, easy as anything.

“Your knees are so sharp,” he complains, but instead of getting up to find a more comfortable position or place to sit he just sinks further into Jon’s lap. 

“Sorry,” Jon says, and leans into the touch shamelessly when Martin’s hand buries itself in his hair for just a few seconds, fingers carding through the strands. 

“It’s fine,” Martin says lightly. His hand pulls away. The corners of Jon’s mouth twitch in preparation of pulling his face into a frown.

In the background Daisy’s shitty, ancient telly loses signal for a few seconds before finding it again. “Do you want me to turn it off?” Jon asks instead of asking for more touch. 

“No,” Martin says, and nestles into his chest, cheek rubbing against the fabric of his sweater.

“You can’t see anything.” 

“I wasn’t watching.” 

Jon makes a noise of confusion. “Then –”

“I just like hearing it.”

It’s not defensive. Just a matter of fact statement. Jon’s arms twitch at his sides awkwardly. Martin wraps his own arms around Jon’s middle. His hands, trapped between the couch cushions and Jon’s back, cannot be comfortable. 

“You –”

“What, you don’t ever just have the telly on for the background noise?”

Jon opens his mouth and then closes it. “Not really,” he says. He’s still trying to decide whether or not to wrap his arms around Martin’s back to pull him in closer. 

Martin hums into his chest. It feels like it makes his ribcage vibrate. “Oh, okay,” he says. “Lots of people do.”

“Alright,” Jon says. “That’s fair, then.”

Does it matter if it makes sense? Does it matter if other people do it? If Jon does it? Martin does it. That’s enough, isn’t it? For it to be fair?

–

“Should we be kissing?” Jon asks. 

“Oh!” Martin says, surprised. “Do you want us to be kissing?” 

“I don’t know,” he says, carefully.

It’s a lie. He doesn’t. It’s just – eventually he’ll have to bring it up. Or, more specifically, eventually they’ll have to talk about it, and he’d rather be the one to bring it up. 

“Uh, okay,” Martin says. “Well, I mean, we can, if you want to, I guess?”

“Right,” Jon agrees. When the toast pops out of the toaster he catches it with two fingers without looking. “But do you think we should be?”

Martin puts down the spatula he’d been using to stir the potatoes in the frying pan. “Um,” he says. “I don’t think what we _should_ be doing is something that we need to worry about.”

Jon frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Just – isn’t the point of relationships to do what feels right? Not try to follow rules?”

“I suppose,” Jon says. 

“Right.”

Jon takes a bite out of his toast absently. “Do you _want_ to kiss?”

“Like I said, if you want to, I won’t say no.”

“That’s not –”

“Do _you_ want to kiss? Because the way you’re talking about this makes me think you don’t.”

Jon takes another bite out of his toast. “Right,” he says. “Not really.”

“Okay,” Martin says, “so we won’t.”

“What?” Jon asks. “Just like that?”

“Yep,” Martin says. “Just like that.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

Martin shuts off the gas and turns to face Jon. “Do _you_ want to talk about it?”

Jon stammers. “I suppose not.”

“Okay,” Martin says. “We don’t _have_ to talk about it,” and then, with his voice going softer, “you don’t have to explain yourself. I don’t mind, and I don’t need to know your reasons, or if you have a reason at all. If you want to tell me, that’s fine, but really, all I need to know is that you don’t want to.”

“Okay,” Jon says, suddenly feeling vulnerable and very, very small. “Okay.”

“Okay. Do you want potatoes?” Martin asks. 

“No, thank you,” Jon says. There’s a feeling settling in his stomach. Something heavy and light at the same time. Something good. Something that makes him want to cry from the enormity of it. 

–

“Don’t,” Martin says out of nowhere. 

“What?” Jon asks. His arms are getting tired but he’s not going to say that. Ache or no ache, he doesn’t feel like moving right now.

“Know stuff. About me.”

That makes Jon pause. “I don’t,” he says. “I don’t even know if I can. Not like Elias can, at least.”

In his arms, Martin turns around to face him. “Okay,” he says. He doesn’t sound like there’s any specific emotion he feels in response. Like he believes or doesn’t believe him. 

“Do you not believe me?” Jon asks anyway, just to make sure.

“I do,” Martin says slowly. His fingers tap on Jon’s chest firmly. “Just, in general. If you figure you can.”

“Right,” Jon agrees, “I won’t.”

“And don’t make me tell you things.”

“Martin,” Jon exhales. “I wouldn’t.”

“Right, just,” and his voice falters slightly, “promise me?”

“I promise.” 

Martin looks at him for a long minute, gaze traveling across his face. Jon is suddenly very aware of how close his face is to his; every detail of his face in ultra HD. 

“Good,” he says. “Thank you.”

–

“You know,” Jon says, “how we don’t have to, uh, kiss?”

“Yeah,” Martin says. He’s got his eyes closed. The light smile on his face turns into a confused straight line of his mouth. “Why?”

“You don’t actually have to say it back.”

Martin opens his eyes. “Say what back?”

Jon reaches one hand forward to touch Martin’s knee, then the other. The water sloshes around them gently. “That you love me.”

There’s a number of emotions that cross Martin’s face in a rapid succession. Jon tries to keep track of them but eventually they all melt into a vague approximation of anxiety, and then Martin closes his eyes again. “You deserve to know,” he says quietly. 

He doesn’t pull back, but Jon wonders – should he have let Martin say it on his own? Should he have waited? He’d wanted to be the first one to speak, with his needs, after all. 

“I do know it,” he says.

Martin shudders, just slightly. Jon pulls his hand away. The rest of his body slides in the tub until their legs knock together, and when they do Martin doesn’t flinch away. “I just – I feel like you don’t like saying it.”

Martin makes a jerky motion with his head, then, not quite a nod yes, not quite a shake of his head no. 

“You said we don’t have to talk about kissing,” Jon says quietly. “You know – how you didn’t need my reasons. I don’t need to know your reasons, either.”

Martin’s eyes squeeze firmly shut. Like maybe if he doesn’t look at Jon he’s safe from the emotions of it all. “Okay,” he says. “You’re sure?” 

“I’m sure,” Jon says, quiet and as gentle as he can make his voice. 

“Water’s nice,” Martin says quietly, voice small. 

“Yeah,” Jon says, feeling like his heart’s being torn out of his chest through his ribcage. “It’s nice.”

–

So – agency. Jon thinks on this. 

Don’t know things about me. Don’t make me say things. Don’t, by expectation, make me say things. He watches as Martin lowers himself gently, the descent of his body to meet Jon’s, and thinks about the agency of asking for things. Getting things. Getting the right things, and the right things only.

“Good?” Martin asks when Jon lets out a shuddering, long exhale. “Not too heavy?”

“Perfect,” Jon says. His lungs feel semi-deflated. He takes a breath, and then says again, for good measure, “perfect.”

“I’m glad,” Martin says. He sounds a little nervous. “Tell me if it gets too much.”

“I will,” Jon says. He wants to keep looking, but his eyelids fall shut anyway. He commits the picture of Martin’s face centimeters from his into the forefront of his mind. Something to project onto the insides of his eyelids as he drifts. “Promise.”

The top of Martin’s head settles underneath Jon’s chin. His hair smells like shampoo. Jon breathes in as deep as he can to get the scent into his lungs, into his blood. Martin’s arms fall to the side of their bodies, elbows on the mattress, hands by Jon’s head, fingers touching the halo of his hair around his head. 

“Feels good,” he mumbles. 

“I’m glad,” Martin says. 

Jon breathes in, out, in, out. The lightheadedness hits slowly, gradually. Not enough oxygen, he thinks. Enough to not hurt, enough to be safe, enough to keep him there, just enough. Nothing bad or dangerous or heavy. The air he’s missing is just gentle in its absence; and Martin; present, there, is more than the air in his lungs. More important, in one way or another, always. Cliche, he berates himself. Tired. Trite.

So he thinks about replacing things with other things. It’s scary. Martin’s fingers curl around Jon’s wrist gently, travel up, onto his palm, and start tracing little circles on the sensitive skin there. “Still good?” he asks again.

“Yeah,” Jon exhales. “Still good.”

There’s a kiss, then, on his jaw. Light. Dry. Martin’s fingers playing with Jon’s, gently moving them by the knuckles. Gentle, gentle. 

And finally, finally, Jon drifts. 

–

It gets easier. It gets comfortable. 

Like:

“Not right now,” Jon says, apologetic, when Martin’s hand reaches for his hair. 

“Okay,” Martin says, and pulls away. “Do you want to pet me?”

Jon’s hands twitch, like _of course_ , like _always_. “Yes,” he says, “I think I want to.”

Or:

“Will you sit in my lap?” 

“Yeah, sure,” and then Martin’s _there_ , the weight of him comforting and now-familiar. 

“I love you,” Jon says. In his arms, Martin makes a short purring noise, rubs his nose against his chest. 

Or:

Martin offering to wash Jon’s hair, hands moving through it methodologically, gently, just the right amount of pressure and speed to get through it without tugging on any potential tangles, like he knows what he’s doing. The firm, patient confidence. 

“I know,” Jon says, eyes closed tightly to keep the shampoo from getting into them. “I know.” 

“Oh,” Martin says, like he understands immediately, and blushes. “Okay.”

Jon’s hand reaching blindly for Martin’s skin, and Martin moving closer so that Jon’s hand can land on his waist. “Lean your head back,” Martin says, quiet and gentle. 

“Alright,” Jon agrees, and does just so.

–

Knowing and being known –

“I want to tell you why,” Martin says quietly into the dark. “Sometime.”

“Okay,” Jon says, equally quiet. “I’ll be here, if you want to.”

“Thank you,” Martin says. When he moves closer his nose touches Jon’s, just briefly, before he resituates himself. “I just think it’s something I want to tell you.”

“Not because you think you have to?”

“No,” Martin says. “Not because I think that.”

“Good,” Jon says, and then after a few seconds, “I don’t know if I want to share mine.”

“That’s okay,” Martin says. “Not like it’s a big thing anyway.”

“Sometimes people think it is.”

“Not me,” Martin says lightly. 

“No,” Jon agrees, and then sighs. Not tired. Not exhausted. Just to get the air out. “Not you.”

**Author's Note:**

> im on tumblr.....at blqckwoods.tumblr.com


End file.
